She is only half-here, and Lucanis is one of three people she trusts while she is in this state. Grief wells up in her like the blood of a cut artery, already congealing into something nauseating and vile.
When he firsts touches her, she flinches—a response she would normally malign; but - given the circumstances - she can’t be compelled to care. She feels like a husk, like something hollowed out and left to fissure and crack in the heat.
It was never supposed to happen like this.
Before she knows it, Lucanis is sitting in front of her, waiting for her to respond. She wills herself back from her racing thoughts just enough to nod her assent.
There is so much to do. Address her House, execute more accomplices, prepare for the ceremony, complete her most recent contract, plan a funeral—
“Most of the blood is theirs.”
“Sal is dead.” Flat affect, wholly detached—she does not recognize her voice as the one that speaks these words.
Sal’s blood burns her skin like fire. It’s as if she can feel what is his in the morbid conglomeration caked and dried across her entire body.
“There will be more. I will find them, and I will make them suffer.”
How many usurpers remain in House Cantori? In her House? She intends to flush them out and pull every last ounce of agony from their throats with her bruised, bare hands.